An Imposter Among Us

17: Fight or Flight

Astrid (3rd-person POV)

"Hang in there, Light. You'll be alright."

Astrid shoved layer after layer of gauze onto his wound, which was spilling blood faster than she thought possible. Ceres must have hit an artery.

Jericho hovered over her shoulder, a pile of sterile rags clutched in his fists. Once in a while she took one, and added it to the ever-growing pile over Light's chest.

She studied him. His eyes fluttered—still conscious, but barely—and his breathing was ragged and labored.

"Did it hit his heart?" Jericho asked.

Astrid considered it. "Don't think so. Ceres hit right above it, I think. But Light could still get a collapsed lung."

Or he could die from blood loss, or from too much internal damage. Or, if he was unlucky enough, lead poisoning. There were so many ways this could all go wrong. But Astrid had to try. She hadn't been able to save anyone else on the Skeld. Light had to be the first.

"Do you need anything else from me?" Jericho asked her.

"No," she said. "This is fine. Our first priority is to slow the bleeding as much as we can."

She took another couple of cloths and pressed them over the wound. It wasn't stopping. It wasn't slowing. Five minutes had passed since Ceres had run off, and Pollux's breaths were only getting shallower.

"Light," she said. "Please. Stay with me. I can help you. You'll be alright."

Light grimaced and shook his head. "No. Save them."

"Don't say that! You'll live, I promise."

He gripped her wrist and looked into her eyes. "Too little time. They could all be dying."

Astrid steeled herself against the vision of Ceres tearing through the ship, putting a bullet through everyone that stood in his way. They would be alone, wounded, with no one around to help in time.

"Light, I'm going to save you," she said. "Alright? Jericho, get me that wound-cleaning kit on the table by the fume hood."

Jericho quickly backed off to fetch the kit. Light sucked in a breath, and his bloody hand slipped away from hers. His eyelids drooped, and his leg muscles relaxed.

By the time Jericho knelt beside her, cleaning kit ready, Astrid was checking his pulse. Slowing. Then gone.

The bleeding stopped.

A weight pressed down on her shoulder, but she didn't regard it. Her lips tightened along with a lump that formed in her throat.

Light—brave, selfless, stupid Light—was dead. And she didn't save him even as she was right by his side.

"Astrid," Jericho said. "This isn't your fault. Ceres pulled the trigger."

"Why can't I save anyone?" she asked, to no one in particular. "Why is everyone dying?"

Jericho said nothing, but leaned towards Light and shut his eyes. He then stood, and pulled Astrid up with him. He only needed to look at her and nod for her to remember what they were supposed to do now.

The next thing she knew, she was pushing Light into the next body freezer and shutting the self-sealing door. Her chest was tight with oncoming tears, but none ever came.

Jericho guided her to the sink and twisted the lever to run some cold water. She forced herself to focus on the blood as it washed off her arms, as a temporary distraction. Once her light brown arms were free of red, she took her time drying them off with paper towels.